Schlafen Sie Gut
by Abracadebra
Summary: When a miserably grumpy Corporal Newkirk takes ill, his friends rally around him, take care of him, and decide not to let him live it down. Until they have to, that is. T for some naughty words. Written for the 2019 SSSWC. Winner of 2 Papa Bear Bronze Awards: Best Medium Comedy and Best Speedwriting Story.


It was late autumn, wet and dreary, and the men of Stalag 13 couldn't stay healthy. Throughout November, colds and sore throats spread. Corporal Newkirk dodged illnesses until he came down with a whopping case of tonsillitis.

Sergeant Wilson wanted him in the infirmary, but Colonel Hogan resisted. Wilson had two German orderlies under him, and there was too much risk that a feverish man would reveal secrets in his sleep.

Plus, Hogan's men were more than a team. They were family. Hogan's commitment was that they would always look out for one another.

"He can stay in my bottom bunk," Hogan advised Wilson as he examined the patient.

"Are you sure that's a good idea, Colonel? His temperature's 101°, and it's still morning. Fevers usually spike at night," Wilson said. "Look at him."

Newkirk, perched on the edge of Wilson's exam table, was a mess. His cheeks were pink and hot. With his pullover off, he was shivering in his vest. His neck was puffy; when he swallowed, he winced. And judging from how he was rubbing one ear, he had another infection brewing.

"You know the problem, Joe," Hogan said. "We could expose our mission if he talks in his sleep. We'll handle him."

"Fine. But don't let it spread, Sir," Wilson said. "Restrict contact with him to yourself and maybe LeBeau, or the whole barracks could get sick. Wash your hands a lot. Now, get him out of here."

Newkirk was pulling his RAF roll-neck over his head. "I know when I'm not wanted," he grumbled.

"Shut up, Newkirk," Wilson snapped. "Just behave and get some sleep. I'll come by after suppertime."

"It's always a treat when you two get together," Hogan grinned. Wilson was the biggest grouch in camp, and Newkirk was at his worst when he was ill.

"Plenty of fluids. Two aspirin every four hours," Wilson instructed as Hogan helped Newkirk into his jacket. "Soup if he's up to it."

"_HE'S_ right here," Newkirk barked as Hogan ushered him out. "Blimey, you get a sore throat and Wilson thinks you're invisible."

"Let's go," Hogan said calmly, taking the weary corporal by the elbow.

Approaching the barracks, they found Sergeant Schultz on guard duty. He was watching as prisoners milled about the compound, playing volleyball, doing laundry, smoking, loafing and absorbing the meager sunshine. The days were short; sunset in mid-November came around 4:30.

"Colonel Hogan, how is the Englander? LeBeau said he was sick," Schultz said as he saw the two arriving.

"Blimey. Still invisible. I'm right here, Schultzie," Newkirk scowled, waving both arms.

"Invisibility could come in handy when we're on a mission, Newkirk," Hogan joked. "Now, answer the nice Sergeant."

"No," Newkirk sulked. All he really wanted to do was collapse and die.

Hogan turned to Schultz, who was trying to un-hear the word "mission."

"He's got tonsillitis," Hogan explained. "He needs bedrest, but there's no room in the infirmary."

"Ahh. Poor boy. _Meine Kinder_ get _Mandelentzündung_ every winter," he said.

"Mandolin what?" Newkirk said. "What a stupid language German is."

"_Mandelentzündung_," Schultz said. "You need tea with ginger and honey."

"Yeah, well, I don't see my mum here," Newkirk bit back.

As a father, Schultz knew to ignore petulance in youngsters, a label that he extended to anyone under 35. He liked Newkirk and could see he was sick, so he overlooked his rudeness.

"The Kommandant will excuse you from _Appell_," he told Newkirk as Hogan opened the barracks door. "_Schlafen Sie gut, Junge_."

"Hooray for Christmas," Newkirk snarled at Schultz, then walked smack into Carter. "Oi! Watch where you're going," he griped, rubbing his shoulder where he had crashed.

"It's too early for Christmas, Newkirk, but it's nearly Thanksgiving! Hey, isn't your birthday right before Thanksgiving?" Carter said cheerfully, apparently unscathed by the collision.

LeBeau was at the stove. "Oui, his birthday is tomorrow," he said. "What's the diagnosis, _mon Colonel_?

"Tonsillitis," Hogan was saying when Newkirk cut in.

"I'm right 'ere, LeBeau! You can ask _me_!" he exclaimed. Then he turned on Carter. "And 'ow would I know about your ruddy American 'olidays, Andrew? Your ruddy, bloody Thanksgiving is bleedin' Christmas in November without a proper bleedin' plum pudding."

Carter looked wounded. He was used to Newkirk's attacks, but this was extra. Newkirk's accent was dialed way up; his H's dropped like rocks. "Boy, you sound upset. You must feel lousy. I'm sorry you're sick, Peter."

Newkirk was silenced by Carter's empathy. He hadn't a clue how to respond to that.

"Shh, _mon pote_," LeBeau said. "Stop picking on André and lie down in Colonel Hogan's office. I'll bring you some tea."

Being shushed got Newkirk's knickers in a twist. "Oh, bloody French tea. **Well, let's face it. No day's perfect**. And this one was going so bleedin' well," he groused as Hogan pointed to his quarters. "Do me a favor and stick to fish stew, mate!" he spat.

LeBeau, kitchen knife in hand, was poised to respond forcefully to Newkirk when Hogan intervened with a squeeze to his shoulder. LeBeau lowered the blade.

"Bedtime, Newkirk," Hogan ordered before turning to Carter. "No talking to the prisoner until he's had his nap, Carter."

"I'll get his nightshirt," Carter said helpfully.

"Thanks. Only LeBeau and I can be with him, though," Hogan said.

"_Je suis très chanceux_," LeBeau grumbled.

"Why? What'd I do?" Carter said, evidently crushed to be denied Newkirk's sunny companionship.

"Wilson's orders," Hogan apologized. "We can't get everyone sick, and he outranks me on medical decisions." He cast his eyes heavenward and mouthed, "Help."

**=HHHHH=**

By the time Carter gathered the nightshirt for Hogan, Newkirk had conked out on the bottom bunk, belly down. Hogan stood in the doorway, arms crossed, taking stock. He sighed. He wasn't cut out to play nursemaid to an irritable corporal. He crossed the room and crouched beside him.

"Newkirk?" he said, gingerly touching his shoulder. "Sit up. Time to get undressed."

"Don't wanna," Newkirk grumped. "Don't hafta. Lea' me 'lone." He had flung off his uniform jacket, but still had his pullover, trousers and boots on as he sprawled on the bunk. His right arm was tucked under him while his left arm hung limply.

Hogan shrugged, unlaced Newkirk's boots and tugged them off. Standing back and trying not to breathe, he peeled off Newkirk's socks, hurled them away, and then shook his shoulder again.

"Come on, Corporal, up. On the double," he said. No response. "Rise and shine or I'll put you on report," he said, shaking harder.

That did the trick. Newkirk moaned and sat upright. "Yes, Sergeant, sorry, Sergeant."

"Who are you calling 'Sergeant'?" Hogan asked affably. "Watch out or I'll bust you back to boot camp."

"**That would mean I would have to die first**," Newkirk groaned.

"You're not making sense," Hogan said. "Are you feeling worse?"

"**Sorry, I only answer two questions at a time**," Newkirk replied. He let Hogan tug his roll-neck over his head, then flopped back onto the bunk, face up.

Hogan didn't like his odds of getting the Englishman tucked in. "LeBeau!" he called.

"Ow, my bleedin' head." Newkirk grimaced at the volume.

"Sorry, soldier," Hogan whispered. He reached his door as LeBeau arrived.

"Prop him up while we get his nightshirt on," he directed. "Then we'll get his pants off."

"Leave me bloody pants alone, you flamin' poof," Newkirk protested weakly through a feverish haze as Hogan and LeBeau pulled him up to sit.

"Oh, for crying out loud. Your virtue is safe with me, Newkirk," Hogan replied. "Trousers, not pants—is that better? Keep your damned drawers on."

"Thank you, darlin'," Newkirk murmured.

Hogan and LeBeau wrestled Newkirk into his nightshirt, dragged off his trousers-not-pants, and tucked him under a soft red blanket Hogan's Aunt Alice had woven. They eyed one another and snickered.

"He's delirious," LeBeau said. "Let's take notes so we can remember everything when we need to keep him in line."

"That sounds like blackmail, LeBeau."

"_Oui_, I know," the French corporal smirked.

"I like the way you think," Hogan agreed with a devilish grin.

**=HHHHH=**

Hogan and LeBeau scrubbed out and retreated to the main barracks. As the day wore on, prisoners wandered in and out noisily. Carter took charge of shushing everyone while Newkirk slumbered.

"How is he?" Carter asked whenever Hogan or LeBeau checked on Newkirk. By early evening, LeBeau had boiled his answer to one word: "Miserable." Newkirk had been swatting and whining at him all day.

"So, regular old Newkirk," Olsen observed.

"_Oui, c'est ça_," LeBeau agreed. Who could blame him? He had borne the brunt of the Englishman's irritability since dawn.

Just then, Colonel Hogan emerged. "Carter, can you get Wilson? Newkirk's fever is spiking."

"How high?" LeBeau asked anxiously.

"It's 103°. I don't like the way he looks," Hogan said.

"Me either," Olsen put in. "I can't decide whether it's his eyes or his nose."

"Can it, Olsen," Hogan said.

"Oui, not now, _imbécile_. Anyway, Newkirk has lovely eyes," LeBeau said.

Hogan just looked at him, as did Olsen. And Carter, Kinch, Addison and Davis.

"What? I'm not allowed to notice things?" LeBeau said. "His eyes are _très jolis_."

"I agree," Kinch said. "Say what you want about his nose, but he has striking eyes."

"You both need to get out more," Hogan said. "Next you'll be admiring his eyelashes."

"You've noticed them too, Sir? They're long and thick! Girls would kill for those lashes!" Carter said. Everyone stared at him.

"OK, OK, I'm going to get Wilson," Carter said. "Sheesh. Say one nice thing about your best friend and everyone looks at you weird."

"He's not your best friend, he's MY best friend," LeBeau shouted after Carter.

"Just get in here, LeBeau," Hogan said wearily.

**=HHHHH=**

Hogan and LeBeau were hovering at Newkirk's bedside when Wilson arrived. Carter trailed him, peering from the doorway. Newkirk was tossing his head, clutching his right ear, and cursing with pain as Hogan tipped him against a pile of coats. He covered Newkirk with Aunt Alice's blanket, resisting the temptation to suffocate him with it.

"Carter!" Hogan stage-whispered when he noticed his audience. "I know you're worried, but I gave an order. Out."

"Yessir." Carter shut the door. He sat at the barracks table, perched his chin on his fist, and brooded. Newkirk was his buddy. Sure, Newkirk and LeBeau had known each other longer. But LeBeau had no patience. Carter had plenty. _He_ should be in there helping.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Kinch was behind him. He'd been on his bunk, mending the spines of some tattered books from the camp library.

"I want to help, Kinch," Carter said. "Newkirk's my pal."

Kinch sat beside Carter. "If it's any consolation, I feel the same way," he said. "But he's contagious, and Colonel Hogan and LeBeau hardly ever get sick. Maybe we can help another way, like by rounding up whatever he needs."

"All Newkirk ever needs are cigarettes, cards, coffee and girls," Carter said glumly. "And he's not getting any of those as long as he's sick. Well, maybe cards. Definitely no girls."

"The poor guy's going to be sick in bed on his birthday. We'll think of something," Kinch said.

"He's been pretty grouchy since he got sick, Kinch. Why's he mad at us?" Carter said quietly.

"He's always mad when he's worried, Carter. It's just worse when he's sick. Pushing people away is how Newkirk protects himself. We can't let that stop us, though. He's our friend," Kinch said.

"What's he protecting himself from?" Carter said, puzzled.

"Needing help," Kinch said. "Needing anyone."

"But caring for one another is what families do!" Carter said. "And we're kind of his family!"

"We know that," Kinch said kindly. "But Newkirk's had … a different experience. Anyway, we're a bunch of guys. He doesn't know how to take it when _we_ care. He doesn't quite believe we could."

**=HHHHH=**

"I told you I'd be here after supper" were the first words out of Wilson's mouth when he walked into Hogan's quarters. He had a full schedule and didn't appreciate being summoned early.

"Oh, shit" were his next words. "He looks terrible."

"You really need to work on your bedside manner, Joe," Hogan said, steering Wilson to a corner. While LeBeau tried to mollify an agitated Newkirk, Hogan briefed Wilson on the situation.

"His fever shot up to 103°, and he's been flipping and flopping for half an hour," Hogan said. "His ear's throbbing, and I'm concerned about the way he's tilting his head to one side. He's in too much pain to swallow aspirin or even water."

"That's bad. Let me look him over," Wilson said.

Wilson and Newkirk weren't pals. Sparks flew when Wilson's grumpiness collided with Newkirk's disdain for authority. The fact that Newkirk was a frequent patient made things worse. He racked up injuries on missions, picked up every cold that passed through the camp, and rarely did what he was told.

But when Wilson reached Newkirk's bedside, he melted. This was one sick soldier. The British corporal was flushed, obviously hurting, and breathing gutturally.

Wilson pulled a thermometer from his breast pocket and shook it. "Under your tongue," he told Newkirk. To Wilson's surprise, the corporal complied, his eyes pleading for relief.

Wilson brushed a hand across Newkirk's forehead. Damn, he was hot. He palpated Newkirk's neck while he waited for his temperature to register. Newkirk recoiled when Wilson touched the right side of his neck.

When three minutes had elapsed, Wilson withdrew the thermometer and shook his head. "Oh brother, 103.6°," he said, scribbling in Newkirk's medical file. "Does your throat hurt worse than before?"

Newkirk nodded, and Wilson took out his penlight. "Say aaah," he said. When Newkirk opened his mouth, Wilson reeled. In just a few hours, his breath had turned horrible.

"Whew," the medic said.

"I noticed, too," Hogan said. "He can't open his mouth wide enough to brush his teeth."

"It's not his teeth," Wilson said as he peered into Newkirk's mouth. "It's the infection. He's got quinsy." He asked Newkirk, "Feel like something's stuck in your throat?"

Newkirk nodded woefully, drooling from the corner of his mouth.

"Quinsy?" Hogan repeated.

"An abscessed tonsil," Wilson said. Then he muttered to himself, "Boy, that happened fast. It was bad before, but not suppurative."

LeBeau was standing nearby, looking anxious. Wilson noticed and explained. "Suppurative means pus is forming," he said. "What's the French word? _Poose_? You know, a yellow infected ooze."

"_Le pus_," LeBeau said, clasping a hand to his mouth as his stomach lurched.

"We have two options, Sir," Wilson told Hogan. "We can leave it alone and let it rupture. But I'd rather drain it. Normally you'd do that in a hospital, but…"

Newkirk was shaking his head. "I'm right HERE. I'm not going to no German hospital," he said in a hot-potato voice. "Don't make me go, Guv. Louis, tell Wilson no."

"Of course you won't go, Pierre," LeBeau said fiercely.

"You're not going anywhere, Newkirk," Hogan added firmly. "You're brave, right? If Wilson needs to lance it, you can handle it?"

Newkirk nodded. "Of course I can," he croaked, doing his best to sound confident and falling only slightly short.

"OK. Wilson, you heard Newkirk. Drain it," Hogan said. "What do you need?"

"Needles and syringes, good light, a steady hand. I have all that. If we could get penicillin, I'd feel better about poking around in his throat," Wilson said.

Hogan heard his office door creak shut. Two pairs of feet padded across the barracks room. Kinch and Carter were on the case.

**=HHHHH=**

"What are the risks, Wilson?" Hogan asked. He was out in the main barracks now, conferring with the medic while LeBeau fussed over Newkirk.

"I could hit the carotid artery," Wilson said, shrugging. "He'd bleed out, and it would be goodbye Newkirk."

Hogan blanched. He appreciated the directness, but it was hard to hear Wilson matter-of-factly writing Newkirk's obituary.

"You're not going to let that happen," Hogan said evenly. "What else?"

"Infection," Wilson said. "That's manageable with penicillin."

"OK. Are you prepared to operate now?" Hogan asked.

"No, Sir. Tomorrow morning. I need daylight, a sterile workspace, and some sort of seat to position him properly. I'll describe it if you can assign a carpenter to build it tonight," Wilson said. "I'll be ready to start at 8 o'clock."

"Happy birthday, Newkirk," Hogan muttered. "What about tonight?"

"Keep someone beside him. He's bound to have a rough night. If that abscess ruptures, he'll gag on the blood and pus. And if it doesn't, it'll keep swelling in his airway, making it harder to breathe," Wilson said. "Keep his chest elevated to a 30° to 45° angle. Track his temperature, and if it breaks 104°, sponge him with tepid water. I'd stay, Colonel, but I've got an infirmary full of patients. Fetch me if he goes downhill."

Hogan was alarmed enough to momentarily doubt his decision to keep Newkirk nearby, but he pushed anxiety away. "There's one problem, Wilson. I have a rendezvous in town with the Underground. LeBeau can't handle Newkirk alone," he said.

Wilson drummed his fingers on his medical bag. "It's a risk. But if you need Kinch and Carter to help tonight, so be it. They've already been sick. With luck, they'll avoid what he has."

**=HHHHH=**

LeBeau was resting on Hogan's top bunk while Carter hovered at Newkirk's bedside, watching his friend. They had gathered coats and blankets from everyone in their barracks and created makeshift pillows to prop Newkirk up. It helped, but he was sleeping fitfully and was touchy when awake.

It was past midnight, and Hogan was meeting an Underground contact in town. Kinch would be at his radio set in the tunnel until Colonel Hogan returned.

Suddenly Newkirk awoke gagging. "Whoa, buddy, easy," Carter said as he pulled Newkirk by the arms to tilt him upright. LeBeau dropped down from the bunk and slid behind Newkirk's back to sit on the bed. Carter gently leaned Newkirk back to rest against him.

Newkirk's eyes were shot with exhaustion, pain and confusion. His fever was still raging and the stabbing in his throat and ear brought tears to his eyes. LeBeau gripped him around the chest. Newkirk tugged Hogan's red blanket to his ear.

"Owwwww," Newkirk moaned softly, barely able to open his mouth. He leaned into LeBeau while Carter checked his temperature.

Carter withdrew the instrument from Newkirk's mouth and squinted at it. "Oh, crap," he said. That got LeBeau's attention, because it was the closest Carter ever came to swearing. "It's 104.4°," Carter said. "We'd better cool him down. Stay put and hold him up. I'll get water and washcloths."

Newkirk, meanwhile, was becoming disorientated. "I wan' go home," he gulped.

"Shh, Pierre. You are home," LeBeau said. "You have your friends. Louis is here, and André and Kinch and Colonel Hogan. You're not alone." Newkirk settled down a bit as the reassurances sank in.

Carter returned with a bucket of water. "I sent Olsen below to tell Kinch that Newkirk's worse, and I asked Langenscheidt to get Wilson," he said.

LeBeau nodded as they removed Newkirk's nightshirt, then tipped him up again. Wilson arrived and stood over the bunk, watching as Carter methodically sponged Newkirk's torso and each limb, covering him with Hogan's blanket as he worked to prevent shivers.

Eventually, Wilson checked the patient's temperature. "Great work, Carter. He's down to 102°. Keep going for a little while, then let him sleep. Maybe Kinch or Hogan can prop him up for an hour or two."

"I'm here," Hogan said from the doorway. "And Kinch is right behind me. LeBeau, Carter, get some rest. Peter's going to need you even more tomorrow. Kinch and I will take the night shift."

No one missed the use of Newkirk's first name. Hogan was worried.

"So cold," Newkirk rasped as Hogan sat beside him. "Where's tha' sof' blanket?" His voice was muffled, so the request took a moment to register. When it did, Hogan smirked and snugged Aunt Alice's handiwork around his corporal.

**=HHHHH=**

All night, Newkirk struggled to breathe. Kinch and Hogan took turns keeping him upright, moistening his lips, and reminding him where he was. At 7 o'clock, they lifted him onto a gurney for the trip to the infirmary. Two prisoners had built a padded backrest to hold him upright on a table so that Wilson could be at eye level with his patient.

At Wilson's request, Carter scrubbed in. He'd seen everything on his grandparents' farm and wasn't squeamish. Together, they settled Newkirk onto the makeshift operating table, situated near a window in the infirmary to admit daylight. Wilson donned a head lamp and surgical gloves and pried Newkirk's mouth open. Using a metal tongue depressor, he reached the back of Newkirk's throat and injected procaine to ease his pain and reduce bleeding.

Newkirk's sleepy eyes widened as Wilson approached with a syringe with a long, large-bore needle.

"Neck extended," Wilson said quietly to Carter, who helped Newkirk stretch out. The medic peered at Newkirk's swollen tonsil and decided how to avoid the carotid artery.

"All right," he said. "Hold him, Carter. Newkirk, you'll feel pressure. Don't move or I'll kill you. Not on purpose, of course."

In went the needle, angled laterally on an imaginary horizontal line from the base of the uvula. Newkirk fought the urge to gag. As Wilson drew back the plunger, the syringe filled with thick yellow fluid. He emptied the contents and inserted the instrument again. Four syringes and several rinses of warm salt water later, Newkirk sat up sputtering and gagging, spewing blood and pus and mucus. But the worst was over.

Carter and a German orderly named Kurtzke transferred Newkirk to a bed in the infirmary, and Kurtzke started IV fluids.

"Easy, Peter," Carter said gently as he settled him down to rest. "All done."

"Thanks, mate," Newkirk mouthed in the barest of whispers.

After shooing the Germans off for their lunch break at noon, Wilson stealthily administered a precious shot of penicillin to a drowsy Newkirk. "Oi, me bum," he murmured, then drifted away.

**=HHHHH=**

By 4 in the afternoon, Newkirk was rousing from his sleep. His ear still throbbed, and his throat ached horribly, but it wasn't the stone-in-my-airway sensation from earlier. LeBeau was by his side and gave Newkirk's hand a squeeze as his eyes fluttered open.

"Happy birthday, _mon pote_," he said.

"Ruddy awful birthday present," Newkirk grumbled in a weak voice, returning the squeeze and hanging on. "Thanks for sticking by me, mate." He swallowed, and his eyes filled with pain.

"Don't talk," LeBeau said. "Rest. Shh."

Wilson, having seen the flutter of movement at Newkirk's bed, arrived at his side.

"Open," he said, shining his light into Newkirk's mouth. "Yuck."

"What's wrong, Wilson?" LeBeau said anxiously.

"It's a mess, but it's healing. He can use mouthwash after 24 hours," Wilson said. "You have visitors coming, Newkirk. Want to clean up before they get here?"

Newkirk nodded, and Wilson dispatched an American orderly to wash and shave him. Soon he was fresh and presentable, though quite pale.

At 5 o'clock, Carter, Kinch and Hogan arrived, with Schultz bringing up the rear. Carter presented a bunch of red and yellow balloons.

"Happy birthday, pal!" Carter said. "You look better than you did this morning!"

Newkirk smiled and nodded his thanks, knowing he oughtn't to talk. He felt like an overgrown toddler as he bounced the balloon strings, but he could see it made Carter smile. He gratefully accepted a new deck of cards from Kinch and wordlessly demonstrated a few tricks. Then his eyes started to droop, and Kinch gathered the cards from his hands.

"I'll put these away for you until morning. I'll come back and play gin with you, OK?" Kinch said.

"Aces are low," Newkirk replied sleepily. Then Hogan held out a brown-paper package.

"You're tired, birthday boy. I'll unwrap it for you," he offered.

Hogan did so, revealing the red blanket that Newkirk had requested more than once.

"Your auntie's blanket," Newkirk rasped. "You can't give it away."

"Of course I can," Hogan said. "It's yours now."

He draped the blanket over Newkirk, tucked in the ends, and perched on the bed. Arms crossed, eyes dancing, Hogan peered down at Newkirk.

"Aunt Alice always liked bad boys. I think she'd _want_ you to have it." He conspicuously omitted any explanation of how _he_ had become Aunt Alice's favorite nephew, but it didn't take much imagination.

Newkirk bit his lip and mumbled, "Thank you, Sir." But the words stung. The Guv was right; he _was_ bad. Very, very bad. He had the best friends in the world, and the best commanding officer, and he'd treated them all horribly. Yet they took care of him anyway. He scolded himself that he didn't deserve them. He warned himself that it would serve him right if they walked away. He goaded himself to be worthy of them.

"…And for my special present, I shall make you whatever you wish to eat for the next 10 days," LeBeau was saying. "I'll steal the ingredients myself."

"You'll have to, with Mr. Sticky Fingers loafing around," Hogan joked, tousling Newkirk's hair. Then he noticed his faraway look. "You all right, Newkirk?" he asked.

"Yes, Sir. Just thinking," Newkirk replied, emerging from his haze long enough to force out a smile.

The men lingered an hour at Newkirk's bedside. As their English friend wafted in and out of sleep, LeBeau observed, "He's _très gentil_ when he's asleep," and everyone laughed. Yes, silent, recovering Newkirk was a pleasant contrast to cantankerous, sick Newkirk.

Hogan decided to spend the night. The risk of a delirious disclosure about their mission now seemed remote, but Hogan remained prepared to clamp Newkirk's mouth shut if necessary.

Newkirk awoke long enough to see his friends off. He couldn't find words and oughtn't to speak anyway, but they thought his eyes looked grateful.

While Hogan was herding them out, Schultz offered his own gift. "I always give my Kinder something special when they are _schwer krank_," he said. "For you."

Newkirk curiously unwrapped the small bundle. Inside was a plush auburn fox with button eyes and a waistcoat the blue of Newkirk's uniform. The label read "Schatze Toy Company."

"It's silly, but he reminds me of you," Schultz said, his eyes twinkling. "You are sly like him, and his eyes are green like yours. He's guarding the IV," Schultz laughed merrily as he leaned the fox against Newkirk's left ribs. He laid his beefy hand on Newkirk's arm. "_Schlafen Sie gut, Englander_."

Newkirk gazed at Schultz and felt his eyes prickle. _My ear and throat still hurt, that's why_, he thought.

"Thanks, Schultzie. **You're the best enemy a man ever had**," Newkirk said quietly. When he thought Schultz wasn't looking, he reached over and pulled the fox under the blanket, onto his chest. _It's only polite to have a butcher's_, he supposed, but he never got to it. His eyelids sagged, the red blanket enveloped him, and the fox felt so soft. _Nobody could call Mr. Tod 'nice,'*" _he recited to himself_. Blimey, I didn't even steal him. I must tell Mavis._

As he dozed, he heard Schultz say, "I will sit here until your friends come back." Then Hogan was beside Schultz, stroking Newkirk's hair before slouching into his chair.

Soft conversation hummed in the background as Newkirk drowsed. He knew he'd never live it down if anyone saw him clutching a toy or letting Schultz and Hogan pet him. Luckily, he thought, only they would know. Newkirk was cozy under his blanket, with a little fox, a big Sergeant, and his Guv looking after him.

Just then, LeBeau reappeared at his bedside. "Newkirk, I forgot to tell you. You had a letter from your mother… _D'accord, putain je regarde quoi là?!_ What are you holding?"

"What, this?" Newkirk whispered as he jolted awake.

"Yes, that." LeBeau gestured with his chin. "It looks like _une peluche_." A condescending smile curled the corners of his mouth. "_Est-ce que tu câlines ton doudou, mon chéri_?" he cooed.

Hogan had stirred awake. Despite his meager French, Hogan detected LeBeau's sudden shift from profanity to singsong, and was grinning with anticipation. He was so interested in the answer that he failed to remind Newkirk to spare his voice.

Newkirk didn't entirely comprehend either, but he got the thrust: His dignity was under attack and a riposte was required. Think fast.

He held the fox aloft and stared at it in astonishment. "Bloody hell. How did this thing get on me? Colonel, did you put this here?"

Schultz suddenly heaved into view. "Of course not, Newkirk," he said. "Colonel Hogan doesn't have a fox—he has a Schatze bear. And my little friend LeBeau has a dog." He shook a finger at them. "Don't you boys remember? Last winter, when you had influenza? Did you lose them?"

"Oh, um, you're right Schultz," Hogan allowed. "I, I still have it."

"Moi aussi. So kind of you." LeBeau shifted nervously.

Both men turned scarlet. Newkirk glared at them long and hard, then rolled his eyes, huffed and turned away on his side. As they babbled excuses, he choked back a laugh, snuggled his fox, and drifted off to sleep and to heal.

**_Notes._**_ LeBeau has a filthy mouth. After registering shock, LeBeau teases Newkirk. _Une peluche_ is a plush toy. As for Schultz, _schwer krank_ means extremely ill._

_In Cockney rhyming slang a butcher's hook, shortened to_ butcher's,_ is a look. A previous Mr. Tod belonging to Newkirk appeared in Chapter 9 of "In the Name of the Father."_

_A big thank you to Snooky-9093 for reading this and challenging me to bring down the schmaltz factor!_


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